Delirium
by jsfan4ever
Summary: He couldn't think straight. [Post Win Today, J&S pairing]


Disclaimer: oh, erm… I'm just borrowing Jack and Sam for a moment. I'll return them to CBS for the sixth season. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: He couldn't think straight. J/S.

Timeline: Post Win Today, with vague references to the end of FO Part 2. Slightly AU in the sense that I'm pretending Anne never existed.

Acknowledgments: Thanks to C for the support, and to everyone at MSt (and elsewhere) for keeping the faith.

-:-:-:-:-:-

Delirium

-:-:-:-:-:-

Fifteen minutes into the shower and his hair was wet, his straight-from-the-laundry shirt white and spotless. He smelled of soap and shampoo-- her shampoo-- and his hands were clean, redder around the joints where he'd had to scrub them to take off the blood. There was blood on his car keys as well, blood on the watch he'd taken off and left beside the towel rack in his haste to reach the shower and turn on hot, running water. He'd tried not to be too long, but it'd taken him a while to accomplish the gestures that usually didn't require much thinking. Perhaps the drugs made him slow, or else he was simply falling asleep on his feet, wounded and delirious.

He suddenly felt something wet running down his neck and his eyes flew open, fear and pain mixing until he realized it wasn't blood, merely water dripping from his hair, the towel he should have kept now lying in a heap in a corner of the bathroom. His shirt felt too small, too tight against his shoulder, but he buttoned it gauchely, wanting at least to hide the gravity of the wound from her.

The pain started to make itself felt as he exited the bathroom, the ache slowing spreading down to his elbow and up to his neck, despite whatever it was they had given him. The damn thing was wearing off, he supposed, or else the water hadn't produced the anesthetizing effect he'd been hoping for.

Samantha was seated on her bed when he approached, her hands clasped in front of her. He didn't know what he looked like, but there was a strange look on her face, and her eyes followed him as he took a few awkward steps around the bed and came to lean against the wall. A favorite spot, once, though for the moment he was simply glad for the support.

"How's your shoulder?"

He continued to look at her, but made the mistake of moving his hand. The pain flared and it became impossible to ignore, his brow wrinkling in concentration as he breathed in a large mouthful of air. His right hand and shoulder were on fire-- fire or ice or whatever it was that burnt so much. The nail gun-- he hadn't thought Cynthia would actually fire until-- until the nail was a part of him and there were bright stars and patches of darkness dancing in front of his eyes and all he could see, all he could think of was pain and blood. His knuckles had turned crimson as the liquid dripped to the floor-- red drops, black stains.

She rose from the bed, moving to stand beside him. There was something familiar about the scene and the both of them a mere foot apart, something that made her hesitate, and caused him to close his eyes. The irony of the situation hadn't been lost on him, when half an hour earlier, he'd walked down an empty street with nothing but his clothes and blood on them, going to see a woman he'd once touched and held at night. Going… home, in his mind, and it had made sense to go to her place back then. But half an hour earlier, the painkillers were still working on his brain and all he knew was that after a day like this one, he couldn't make the mistake again of going to a place where she wouldn't be.

With an effort, he mumbled, "You… you didn't get shot this time."

It didn't make sense, he knew. The drugs-- they incapacitated his brain, and he couldn't think straight, only stand against the wall. She couldn't know that she was his energy-- that she was his purpose, that he needed to stay awake simply to make sure that she could move and breathe and talk and be more than half-alive. But her room felt oddly dark-- the walls were dark, there were shadows and she moved too quickly to be human, and that's when he knew for sure that he was delirious from the pain and fever.

"I should go home."

She frowned, her eyes surprised. There was concern on her face, and then there were old questions that had stayed in this room while he'd been gone. She cared, still. And after all this time she wasn't buying it, wasn't willing to believe him. He'd lied to her about the pain and he'd told the EMT's he didn't need to go to the hospital, and now he pretended he wanted to be alone, and she was seeing past that lie as well.

"I don't think…" she shook her head.

He tried to move again, but his hand hurt, the bandage was too tight− it was still burning, his hand was burning and his right shoulder was burning and he had to shut his eyes once more, to grit his teeth and thank God for the wall behind his back.

"Jack," she required softly. "Let me have a look."

Her voice brought him back, and he opened his eyes. His knees felt weak, his body too heavy. Blood− he'd lost blood. Too much. He licked his lips, then rested his head against the wall, not sure how long he could still stay on his feet. Darkness was starting to cloud his vision, and his breathing was shallow-- he was falling, falling…

"Jack, sit down," Samantha urged, sliding an arm around his waist, and out of nowhere he felt something solid behind his knees and sat on the edge of the bed with a relief he couldn't comprehend until his vision cleared, the darkness retreated, and she was back in front of him.

Her hands were suddenly on his chest− warm and soft, reassuring in their gentleness as she worked on his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one. She was undressing him deftly, something his mind couldn't quite process, only, it felt good to have her so close, and for a wonderful second the pain receded, chased away by the warm feel of her fingers on his skin.

She quickly found some antiseptic, scissors, enough band-aids to heal an army. Something for the pain, as well. Kneeling in front of him, she quietly ran her fingers along his upper arm, up to his shoulder and neck, trying to assess the damage before she removed the bandage. He was starting to shiver from cold and shock and the realization of what she was doing. She worked efficiently, cleaning the wound and changing the dressing, her movements as gentle as possible. At one point, she grimaced. The nail had clearly-- it wasn't bleeding anymore, but it was a nasty wound and all she had was antiseptic--

"You should have let the EMT's take you to the hospital."

"No, I… no hospitals," he managed to say before wincing.

Once she was done with his shoulder, she turned to his hand and applied the same treatment to it. The pain was now a dull throb, still present but bearable, and he allowed himself to relax, letting the ache slowly fade until all that remained was a peaceful, numb fatigue.

"You'll have to use your left hand to write for a while."

He simply nodded, and she didn't realize how close they were until she felt his other hand on her cheek, warm and grateful. Wordlessly, she sat down beside him and leaned aside, her head falling on his shoulder. He wrapped his good arm around her, tilted his head to rest it against hers, reveling in the sudden numbness, calmness, that had taken over his thoughts. For a while there was no pain, no darkness, no sound or words, just the steady rhythm of his heart against her own. Why they had this power together, to mute the world outside, he couldn't understand, but he was glad for her presence, and for the heat that radiated from her and made him warmer bare chest than he had ever been with his shirt. He wanted to sleep, forget. Most of all, he didn't want her to move. Ever.

Eventually, she raised her eyes to look at him. "How are you feeling?"

His hand squeezed her shoulder briefly before it came to rest on her back. He closed the distance to place a light kiss on her forehead, and she closed her eyes against the sensation. She didn't speak or disturb the moment, simply listened to his slow breathing and the silence of the room, savoring the contact of his skin against her body. He was back into her life, and she wanted to tell him all about fear and guilt and desire and how much she'd lost and gained in one single day.

His hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers idly brushing against her hair, unable to convey his gratitude for what she made him feel, for what her simple existence meant. She was here and she was alive and no drug could ever make him forget that.

Samantha tipped her head aside. "You want to talk about what happened?"

He brushed aside some hair from her face. "Tomorrow," he whispered. Hesitating, he drew her closer against him. "If you don't mind," he added, somewhat awkwardly.

She smiled, for the first time. "I don't mind."

They didn't move for a while, his hand still combing through her hair. Her face was buried in his neck, her breath caressing his skin, and they were both silent until he muttered quietly, "I've waited for this."

When she said nothing, and continued to breathe slowly against him, he continued, "I've waited for us to simple be together."

She waited, but he didn't elaborate, just pulled her against him some more. It was a few moments before she pressed her lips to his neck, and trailed her mouth lightly under his ear, feeling him stiffen before he let out a rapid breath. She kissed the side of his chin next, then worked her way up his cheek, feeling his heartbeat surge, his body instinctively responding to her touch-- his fingers tightening on her neck and a shy smile creeping up his features as her breath continued to tickle his skin.

She met his eyes at last-- forehead against forehead, lips practically touching. "We are, Jack."

/ End


End file.
